Trouble in Mind
by Cakenbakin
Summary: After Julia left, he was disconsolate. After Anna pledged love for another he was destroyed, but when the beloved detective goes missing amids a pool of blood and carnies, loyalties are tested and faith is shaken. Summary sucks, just read and see!
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello people! This is my first Murdoch Mysteries fic, but, as my stupid country won't let the show air until the end of the season, the little clips I have been getting have been driving me insane! So here it is; a little drabble-esque thingie of my own creation! Oh yah and PS, I don't own anything, (of course… well except for the words and stuff, but not the characters or story line or any of that stuff!)**

Detective William Murdoch sat hunched over his desk, half asleep in melancholy dreaming, watching the rain as it rolled leisurely in its path down the window. Dr Francis had it all wrong; he had it worse than wrong.

The infuriating little man figured that he could just traipse in and ignore basic pathologist protocol. He claimed to know what he was doing, yet Julia, with only a picture and scant evidence, could piece together a viable, and often correct, portrait of a victims last hours; _from Buffalo_.

Murdoch clenched his fists on the desk just thinking of the mistakes Francis had made recently. His mistakes were elementary and sloppy. Higgins could have made more intelligent observations with no practice in the field.

Brakenried blamed him for the problems at the station; threatening his job. So _much for finding a place to belong, _Murdoch thought bitterly. George had been adamant about his taking leave to visit the Falls, claiming, with one of his usual stories, that his aunt Jess had spent five weeks in their presence and watched her melancholy slip right away.

Maybe he did need a vacation, he thought. He found himself growing increasingly agitated with the men, and even George found himself on the receiving end of certain angry expletives from time to time.

He had kept the ring hoping that Julia would come back, waiting patiently like a puppy dog for his master to come home from work. It had been months, and he found that Julia's letters had become less as her new life settled, little knowing that her correspondence was like food to him; essential and, when lacking, unbearable.

He had lost weight the last months, and he noticed with an agitated sigh one morning that none of his trousers fit him around the waist, preferring instead to find a comfortable position more around his ankles. His weight was not the only thing to be affected, however. While he continued to excel at his job to the best of his abilities, he found sleep to be a desired, but for the most part impossible, companion.

To pick up slack for Dr Francis, he had been forced to spend countless midnight hours scouring over books, and the occasional corps, to prove his often protested theories and solutions, saving the skin of not only himself and the doctor, but often of unwitting suspects who the doctor was more than willing to see hang if it meant he could carry on with his bodies, which, he had so eloquently said, "had a habit of dying, sometimes in bunches."

The case he had been plumbing away at, coincidentally, involved people dying in "bunches," so, he figured, the work would be enjoyable to Francis.

It was a rather simple case, really. The bodies of three men had turned up in a creek outside Toronto near a small log cabin, owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Deschamps, unfriendly hermits with a nasty collection of guns matching the bullets in the men's wounds. All that was left was to decide who had committed the crime.

Murdoch was sure that it was one of them, but positive it was not both. Mrs. Deschamps claimed that her husband, in a booze-fueled fit of rage, killed the men who, in his inebriated state believed to be his wife's lovers, and promptly passed out in the woods nearby with a nasty head wound. Mr. Deschamps, however, claimed that the wound was from his wife, muttering that she had a great gift for throwing rather heavy objects, like bricks, with astounding accuracy.

He claimed his wife had set him up, intent on stealing his "fortune" and "fine estate" if he went to jail, and held fast to his story that "the old hag" had come up behind him and smashed the said bricks over his head, knocking him unconscious. "I was sober as a judge, I was," he said in a solemn voice when asked about his state that night.

One thing was sure, though. Either it was a fit of rage over "lovers," or it was a sloppy and badly played-out attempt at gaining the pennies that the husband owned, and that the wife desired. It just left to be figured which one it was. They were both in custody, in different cells, and Murdoch could hear them from down the hall, bickering loudly and cussing each other.

A clap of thunder rent the air as he roused himself from his semi-conscious state, causing him to jerk violently in fright, upending his papers on the floor. He bent to pick them up, but wacked his head against the top of the desk when a familiar voice said, "Hello, Sir. I thought you might like some tea, with the weather and all."

Murdoch was about to reply rather crossly, but, finding his patience, pulled out from under the desk and said, "My god, George, it must be midnight. Why are you still up?" George was soaking wet, his hair falling across his face in damp strands and coat thoroughly saturated with the stuff. Under his arm he held a thermos, and in the light it showed that his nose was very red from his walk to the station.

"Well sir," his innocently kind young protégé replied, "I simply didn't feel right about leaving you here. I mean, sir, with all the extra work you have been piling on to compensate for that dunderhead Dr. Francis—,"

"Who calls him that?" Murdoch demanded sharply.

"Well, everyone, sir," Crabtree said, slightly taken aback, "we all see how he overtaxes you and bungs up continually. I mean, if he wasn't from Scotland Yard, I'm sure the Inspector himself would have no qualms about sacking him."

"That has been bothering me," Murdoch replied, coming to take the supplies from his friend, "If he is from Scotland Yard and has had so much experience dealing with murders and such, why does he give so little regard for our cases? Is it that he believes our policing to be beneath him?"

"Or is it that he never worked for Scotland Yard at all?" Crabtree finished the question with a quizzical turn of his eyebrows.

"No, no," Murdoch shook his head, "I thought of that; he has credentials, references, certificates; the lot."

"Well perhaps he is like Orgille," Crabtree suggested, pouring an amount of tea into the thermos lid and handing it to his boss, "first killing the real Dr. Francis to impersonate him, then carrying it out… think of it, sir. It would not be the newest or oddest occurrence ever."

"Impersonating a pathologist, George?" Murdoch asked skeptically, taking a sip of the tea. He promptly gagged and spat it out into the cup. Making a face, he looked up at Crabtree and said, "George, what is this?"

"Oh, a special brew, sir," he replied in a jolly voice, "My aunt Myrtle taught me how to make it. Just mix up an orange peel, rose hips and a few worm segments and there you go—," Murdoch gulped and pushed the cup down on his desk, placing it away from him with delicate horror.

"At any rate, we should both be off to bed," Murdoch reasoned, ducking back under his desk, gathering the fallen papers. "We have a full day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Sir?" Crabtree asked, taking Murdoch's vacated cup and downing the contents. Murdoch could have sworn he felt his eye twitch when Crabtree finished the cup and refastened the lid of the canister.

"We all must sleep well if we are to survive another day of the doctor's idiocy and that couple's bickering." Crabtree nodded, and pulled a small package from his greatcoat pocket, handing its contents to Murdoch, who eyed it suspiciously.

"A donut," Crabtree clarified, "from Betty's. She makes the best ones I have ever tasted." Betty was Crabtree's new beau, a cute brunette with frizzy hair that framed her face like a halo and bright hazel eyes, the color of changing leaves in the fall, as an enamored Crabtree had once put it.

Murdoch bit into the treat, and, finding it quite delicious, scoffed it down in a few swift bites, as he had not eaten since the morning. After that, he himself gathered his things, wiping his hands on his trousers as he adjusted his own coat and hat against what he knew would be a tempest awaiting him outdoors.

"Ready?" Crabtree asked at the door, wind lashing cold rivers of water across his face.

"Ready," Murdoch affirmed. "George?" He asked.

"Yes sir?"

"You were kidding when you mentioned the segmented worms, weren't you?"

**AN: I will add more soon, I hope, but in the meantime, R&R! Tell me what you think. Yes, I know I put in Mature, but it gives me a little slack for future chapters. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! I have been very busy, but here's another chapter! (*Oh, thoughts on focusing on George more? He's so cute ) Oh, the chapter title is from the song "With Whiskey" by Tunng. Great band!**

**Chapter 2- With Whiskey**

That night after he left George at his rooming house, he proceeded to walk slowly home, savoring the precious feeling of the rain as it dropped lightly, like lovers kisses, upon his face. He was grateful for Crabtree's thoughtfulness, but he wished he had not come.

Hours of bungling along, attempting to write a letter to Julia had subsequently failed, but he refused to resign himself to his misery. Brakenried would not grant him leave to Buffalo, and Julia had made no indication of her coming home, so he had to content himself with speaking to the portrait of Liza on his bedside table, asking her for help.

"Liz," he said tiredly as he took off his socks that night, "You know I love you, and want to see you again, but darling, what should I do? You have left me; now Julia has too." He laughed; a short little humorless laugh, "I suppose that Mrs. Kitchen will be evicting me for not paying rent next." He sighed and ran his hand through his wet hair, "If this is punishment for not confessing my sins, I will go every day for the rest of my life."

He couldn't remember falling asleep, but when he awoke, he felt no better than he had when he closed his eyes.

"Life awaits," he muttered, rolling out of bed and adjusting the little cross that hung, like a medallion, on his neck. He dressed slowly and when he arrived downstairs, refused Mrs. Kitchen's offer of breakfast, watching the other roomers give him curious glances as he passed.

At the station, the boys were just waking up; they dressed in their uniforms, but here and there evidence of their tiredness showed. Someone's lapel was out of place, a white tunic hung below the cut of a navy vest…

And a pretty blond with frizzy hair and a traveling cloak stood in his office, glancing around curiously, examining certain equipment on his desks. When she saw him, she smiled and he rushed to embrace her.

"Anna!"

"Oh, hello Harry," she smiled, "I thought I would come to Canada after all. Oh my, you are terribly thin," she released him to appraise his appearance.

"Harry?" George asked, pocking his head around the corner of Murdoch's office door.

"Yes," Anna beamed, "When your detective was in Bristol, he couldn't remember his name, so I gave him one." George's eyebrows rose, but he did not comment.

"It is so nice to meet you," Anna said, holding her hand out to George. He took it and nodded.

"Sir," Crabtree looked to Murdoch, "there's been a fuss. We found a girl in Barkers Eddy."

Anna glanced up at Murdoch and caught his eye. "I'll wait here. Do you think that I came all this way just to let you skip off? You must show me the city!"

"Quite right," Murdoch replied, "I must. Where are you staying?"

"Um," she thought about it, "It's called the Fredericton. Do you know it?" George waited impatiently by the door.

"I think I will be able to locate it," Murdoch moved towards the door.

"At six if you can make it."

"Six, perfect."

The woman found in Barkers Eddy was named Lucy Calbridge. At first, it seemed merely that the girl had fallen in and drowned, but on closer examination, there was evidence of finger marks on her throat; barely noticeable bruising that caused two thin bands to circle her throat.

Murdoch got the men with the stretcher, and they took her away. Knowing Francis, the postmortem results would not be given until the following day. He could go see Anna early, he thought.

Crabtree was otherwise engaged with walking his beat, so Murdoch slipped away virtually unseen.

He walked to Anna's hotel; his bike was in the shop, and he found himself thinking traitorously of Julia. Anna was his friend, but did she wish something more? Julia was gone. There was no coming back, but he could not stop thinking of her. If he showed interest in Anna, then would he fall for her instead? He knew the pain of losing Liza, and thought that perhaps if he fell for Anna, he would feel that pain again when she left, if she left.

He found himself walking up the front desk with a glazed expression and asking which room she was in. The clerk, a young, fresh-faced man around twenty told him, and he moved off to find her, only to have her find him.

She was pulling on her gloves as she walked along the corridor, her hat tipped on the side of her head and purse wedged under her arm. She looked up when she heard him coming, and moved towards him, awkwardly, for her bag and tipped hat.

"Well, help me," she said, handing him her purse as she adjusted her hat and fixed her gloves. She looked up, blew a stray curl from her eyes and took the bag back. They began to walk, and she asked, "Are you and Doctor Ogden still together?" rather abruptly.

"No," he replied. "I got off work early; do you wish to see the city now?"

"That would be lovely," she took his arm; "I was just about to go for a walk."

"So, how do you like the city?" Murdoch asked as they neared the corner.

"It is nice enough," she grinned, "I love the newness; Bristol is so ancient and dull."

They kept walking and Murdoch pointed out all the familiar sights and attractions of Toronto to Anna, enjoying her look of awe he explained monuments and buildings to her as they passed. Finally, however, they reached a park, and they sat down on the grass, eating the sandwiches and sipping the cola they had purchased down one of the side streets.

"Why are you really here, Anna?" Murdoch asked, watching her carefully.

"You gave me money; I thought I would come here before I moved on to New York. I couldn't be in the continent and not see you." She sounded innocent enough, but Murdoch still did not believe her.

"Anna, please, I am serious, why did you make such a detour to Toronto? New York is hours that way," he pointed in the direction he thought New York was, though without a compass he could not be sure.

"Have you ever known someone who you cannot stop thinking about?" her voice became quiet, "Someone who, even in your sleep, is there?" Murdoch nodded. He knew the feeling exactly. "Tell me again; are you with Julia Ogden?" She asked this abruptly, staring earnestly into Murdoch's eyes.

"No," he said, "But Anna, please do not get any ideas. If the man you love is here, in Toronto, go and find him, do not wait for me."

She made a frustrated noise and kissed him, her sandwich forgotten in her hand. "I have found him," she said in a husky voice as they broke apart. "I am sorry, but I could not go to New York without seeing you; I—I thought that maybe—oh, am so stupid." She dropped her hands and folded them in her lap.

Murdoch took her hands, looking earnestly at her. "Anna, Julia is gone. I need some time."

"All I have is time," she replied, refusing to look at him, "I thought when you left, 'now that is a man I would like.' I haven't found anyone like you in the year you left though, not in Bristol or Canada. I disillusioned myself, I 'spose." She stood to leave, gathering her hat and untangling her hands from his.

"Wait," Murdoch called. He could not let her leave as Julia had left. "Sit, please. I did not say never, I simply told you that I am still recovering from Julia."

"So it is maybe, just not right now?" she demanded.

"Yes, I—,"

"Kiss me and tell me that," she demanded, voice low. "If you don't feel anything, I'll leave."

"Anna—," Murdoch stood and lowered his face to hers, "I will not kiss you—you are upset."

"I am not giving you a choice this time," she replied, rising onto her toes, watching him carefully.

Murdoch did not know what took him then, but he kissed her, wrapping her arms around her waist. She responded enthusiastically and intertwined her hands in his hair, bring their bodies closer. When they broke apart both were flushed and Anna looked taken aback.

"Wow," was all she could say, her eyes wide. "Even when you kissed me in Bristol you did not kiss me like _that_."

Murdoch was about to say something, but Higgins appeared then. "Sir," he said, glancing curiously at Anna, "I don't mean to interrupt, but Dr Francis has asked for your presence in the morgue."

Murdoch picked up his left over cola, poured it on the grass and looked apologetically at Anna.

"Well, go on," she nodded, a funny lopsided smiled on her face. "Call on me when you are free again."

"Higgins," Murdoch turned to the young officer, "please escort Miss Fulford home." Higgins nodded. "Oh, Harry," Murdoch's eyebrows knitted in concern, "Did the doctor tell you why he requires my presence?"

Higgins shook his head.

Murdoch looked back at Anna then, smiled, and bade them good-bye, regretting that he had not brought his bike with him as the walk back to the station was at least seven minutes by foot. When he arrived and walked into the sterile whiteness of Julia's office—no, Francis' office, he found the doctor bent over a low wooden table, mixing various chemicals with judicious attention.

"You wished to see me doctor?" he asked.

Francis looked up, sighing angrily. "You could not have waited to ask me that? I am rather engaged as of now; important business, you know." Murdoch squared his jaw and fought the overpowering urge to hit the imprudent little man.

"Be that as it is—," Murdoch ground out, "I had rather engaging business elsewhere as well. If what you need to say is so important then say it."

"Engaging business?" Francis sneered, "Yes, you had _engaging business_. What were you doing, detective? Pouting over your doctor Ogden? Throwing back a pint at the bar because you simply _cannot bear_ to be without her? I have engaging business with dead bodies; you are, like a weakling simpleton, sniveling over a _woman. _Really, detective_ I did not know you were so weak." _Murdoch did not know what possessed him at that moment, but he found his fist sailing into Francis' mouth, and again and again. Francis offered little resistance, so it was only when George and Higgins peeled him off of the doctor a moment later that he could see the damage he had caused.

Francis' left eye was swollen shut, his jaw purple and bloody, and his nose crooked and bleeding profusely.

"Sir," Crabtree said in a concerned voice, holding his boss back, "Sir! Stop, please. Don't hit him; you'll be to blame for this." He slackening his grip as Murdoch no longer struggled back, and Murdoch wrestled free of the young constable's grip, nostrils flared and eyes burning. He pushed Higgins when the other man put his hand on his shoulder in a calming gesture and marched out of the building, massaging his knuckles which were bloody from contact with Francis' face.

He barely saw himself enter the pub and his voice was foreign when he ordered the strongest whiskey in their stock. A few pub-goers gave him an odd look; their detective was a tea totaller, wasn't he?

He drank until he could not speak coherently, throwing back the alcohol like water. It took a lot to get him drunk, a trait his father had passed to him. The only difference was that his alcoholic father would drink homemade moonshine, of whose alcohol content was almost double that of a beer, thus achieving inebriation more easily.

A few other police officers entered the pub, but they were all from other stationhouses so they did not know him, or pretended not to. He knew there was talk about him after Doctor Ogden left, but he failed to care. News of Julia's exploits in Buffalo had even reached Toronto, and most thought that Murdoch was merely being selfish, and that he should be happy for Julia's success.

He had borne her loss well for the last months, but as he drank, instead of her becoming fuzzier and less important, she became clearer and more distinct. He thought of her, but then his mind wandered. Before he lost control of his body and mind, he thought of Anna and stumbled from the bar in the direction of her hotel.


	3. Chapter 3

Anna opened her door to loud rapping on the oak wood. She was dressed for bed, her high necked, floor length nightgown obscuring all but her hands. She was surprised to see what she did; Murdoch, his eyes dull and whiskey on his breath.

"William," she exclaimed, ushering her friend inside. He staggered a bit on the doorjamb but Anna put out her arm to steady him. "What has happened?" She asked, sitting him down on her bed and watching him with concerned little frown.

"Doctor Francis—he—he—," Murdoch trailed off.

"You've been drinking," Anna said. "Boy, you'll be mighty hung-over tomorrow, mate. Why don't I take you home? You'll feel betta'."

"No," Murdoch said, gripping her arm, "let me stay here, please." Anna considered it for a moment. She had been the owner of a pub for years and knew men's habits when they drank, but she felt a little reckless, so she nodded.

"You are so beautiful," Murdoch slurred, "As pretty as Julia. Prettier, even." Anna blushed and touched his cheek.

"You sir, must sleep; you are acting far too strange for ma' likin'." Murdoch, instead of being phased as he would have been sober, was bolder. He took the hand that Anna had placed on his cheek and kissed it.

He looked up into her eyes then, and she saw that he would not remember the night's events in the morning. He was so gone. He leaned over then and kissed her as boldly as he had done in the park. Like a fool she responded, tangling her fingers in his hair.

He unbuttoned his shirt as they kissed and they both fell backwards onto the sheets, not letting each other go in their decent. Murdoch sighed into her shoulder trailing kisses from her neck to cheek to mouth.

"Life is so— unpredictable," Murdoch breathed in her ear as he nibbled her neck.

"Yes, but even more so with whiskey," Anna responded closing her eyes in bliss.

**AN: Ideas? Should Murdoch ditch Julia? I kinda like Anna better; she isn't all coy and deceptive. Let me know what u think. R&R!**


	4. Black is the Color

**AN: here comes a disclaimer! Yay! I don't own Murdoch Mysteries, the books or the series, but you all know that already (although I wouldn't mind owning George ;)**

**Chapter 4- Black is the Color of my True Love's Hair**

Murdoch awoke the next morning blurry-eyed and confused. He had hit Dr. Francis… Malcolm Lamb was released from the constabulary for hitting a constable…

He groaned and turned over to see Anna, her face sympathetic, fully dressed already with a cup of tea in her hand. She was leaned up against the wall, and admired his face as she watched him. Even hung over, he was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen.

"Morning, sailor," she smiled, "fancy a cup of tea?"

"Anna," Murdoch said a bit too loud, for his ears rung, "how—what?"

"You staggered over here, blind drunk and attempted to take advantage of me," she joked, "I was helpless to stop you, though. Maybe it's the hair."

"Oh god," Murdoch groaned, running a hand across his chin. "I'm so sorry, Anna. I did not think."

"Don't worry," she assured him, "You best be up though. Two of your constables have been here already to find you."

"What for?" Murdoch asked miserably, "I have lost my job, I lost my temper…"

"Nonsense," she chided, coming to sit on the bed beside him, "Nothing is ever done that cannot be undone." He was sitting up now, and she patted his knee, a sympathetic expression on her face. "Anyhow, those boys did not seem angry at you, only concerned."

"Of course George would worry," Murdoch said, sitting up and pulling his wrinkled and disguarded tunic back over his head. "He worries about everyone all the time, it is a true wonder that he has not died from it."

"He is a good man," Anna replied, "Don't you go and say a word against him. He cares about you, but if you do not sort this mess out with Doctor Francis, your boy may be the one taking your place soon."

Murdoch stood and replaced his belt buckle. He then straightened his shirt and bent to retrieve his shoes from under the bed. "Nothing is ever done that cannot be undone," he parroted as he threw his blazer on and buttoned it to his collarbone. He was just about to leave, but Anna stopped him.

"You forgot something," she said, indicating her cheek. Murdoch looked a little taken aback for a moment, but then, deciding that he should act, came over and kissed her gently. "Thank you my dearest Anna," she said in her best school ma'rmish voice. "Now go, I want to hear you have gotten your job back. Plead, grovel, I don't care." She smiled as he left, and when he made his way into the hall, he heard what very much sounded like a sigh from the other side of the door.

**AN: Again, a short chapter, but I promise, more to come soon! (I have it all planned out for Murdoch and hope to get the new chapter (I think it will be longer) up as quickly as I can. Exams are almost over, so I am hopeful!**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Okay, so another chapter! Enjoy! Oh, reference to Kommando, so if you haven't seen it, go to the Murdoch Mysteries page on CityTV and look up the videos O (as well as "Anything You Can Do" from season 2, I think.)**

"You've crossed the line, Murdoch," Inspector Brakenried said, nostrils flared and eyes burning. His face was the exact color of an overripe raspberry. "I have granted you every concession. When you disobeyed my orders I let you. When you blatantly flaunted your knowledge in front of Francis, I said nothing. That's it. This is the end."

Murdoch could not reply. He felt numb. He had never thought of himself doing anything other than policing, and saw the inspector's office, as if through a fogged lens.

"Did you hear me?" Brakenried shouted, jaw set.

Murdoch was silent.

"I said, did you hear me?" Brakenried said again.

Still Murdoch did not reply.

"Get out of my office; you are a disgrace to the constabulary." This comment shocked Murdoch into motion, and his head snapped up.

"I will get my things," Murdoch said in a barely audible voice. He bowed his head again and felt his world crumbled under his fingers, eyes burning as he went. He thought of retrieving his things, but on a last minute decision, moved away from his office and out the station doors.

Anna had been waiting outside for him, but at that moment he found he could not bear to look her in the eye. She put her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged her off.

_"The military is the last bastion for some."_

No one would hire him after the incident with Dr. Francis, he was sure of it. He could do as Brakenried had said and enlist; certainly, he could shoot, but after seeing the actions of Cole's brigade-turned-murderers, he could not bring himself to consider such options.

He barely heard Anna calling after him, and did not see when he turned down the road to the train station. He had nothing left in Toronto. Not even Anna.

"All aboard for the eleven fifteen to Hamilton!" the conductor shouted as whistle screamed its warning call. Jasper would know what to do. He had to. He was Murdoch's equal in every way. He had even expressed his attraction to Julia once.

Settling down for the journey, all these thoughts flitted, like poison darts, through his mind. He could never love Anna, he knew that. He had always known that. First Liza's death, then the loss of Julia; his heart was broken. For good.

He had begun to lose hope of ever reuniting with Julia. He was sure she would have found a man in Buffalo, maybe her dashing colleague, Dr. Gardener.

The train lulled him into a dazed sleep, and he was shaken awake by the train lurching to a stop at the Hamilton station. He looked up and brought himself to his feet, regretting suddenly not bringing the rest of his belongings.

_It is only for a while,_ he told himself,_ I will go back to Toronto_. Except that he probably never would go back. Mrs. Kitchen could sell his things for all he cared. His projects could be blissfully forgotten, and his life there could be slowly eroded and wash away with the years. Detective Slorack could do his job for a while, and then maybe George would be promoted. It would be good, and he would be forgotten.

He took the train from Hamilton to Winnipeg and from there to Calgary. In Calgary he stayed a night at the poorest hotel he could find, as his money had begun to run out. There, rolling hills and mountains of Calgary spoke to him. Fields of golden wheat swayed in the wind, cows cropping at the grass in their paddocks.

The mountains there glittered in the sunlight, and on the few days he spent in their shadow, he found the men and women living their hardy and simply lives endearing. This however, had to end, and he took the train onwards to Kamloops.

British Colombia was just as breathtaking as Calgary, even more so in the mountains where fragrant valley lilies and Indian paintbrushes grew. On some of the mountains, there was still snow that capped their peaks, while others grew in jagged peaks, sharp and imposing, bare but for the shale that gathered around their bases.

At last, however, he came to Kamloops and disembarked, asking as he did the directions to the local constabulary. To this, the local he has asked gave him an odd look, but said, in a hospitable tone, "Ah, you mean the RCMP outpost, it's over there yonder."

When he approached the outpost, as it was called, he saw a few Mounties saddling their horses and drinking coffee in the mid morning light. They looked at him when he approached, and one said, in a decidedly western way, "howdy sir, what you be needin'? You look mighty lost if you dun mind me saying."

"Is Sergeant Jasper Linney here?" He asked. The men exchanged looks and the man who had commented said, in a regretful voice, "Sure, he left for the territories yesterday."

"What is this about?" Murdoch turned to see a pretty brunette, her long hair braided down her back and wearing a petticoat and colonial style day dress, complete with a straw bonnet.

"Mrs. Linney," the first Mountie said, "how r' you this morning?"

"Well enough," she replied, "but for my husband's absence. I daresay he shall be gone for long."

"Indeed," the man replied. "Dot, you have a visitor for your husband."

Dot looked curiously at Murdoch and she said, adjusting her bonnet, "I have never seen you before. Where do you come from?"

"Toronto," Murdoch said, "My name is William Murdoch of the Toronto constabulary. I am also your husband's brother."

"Oh mercy!" cried Dot, her face lighting up, "of course you are! Jassie has told me about you. I did not know you were coming here. My name is Dorothy Linney. My husband is gone, though. You just missed him by a day."

"So I heard," Murdoch replied. He bit his lip, and looked around, suddenly feeling rather foolish.

"Do you have lodgings?" she asked, watching him curiously.

"No, not of yet," Murdoch said, "I have only just arrived."

"Oh," she replied, "you must stay with us, then. Our home is not big, but with Effie so young, there should be room."

"No," Murdoch shook his head, "I could not possibly accept."

"Nonsense," she replied, "My Jassie has told me that he wanted you to come here. Effie should get to meet her uncle, as well."

"Well, I—," Murdoch began,

"It is settled, then," she said. "I hope you don't mind, I have to buy flour at the shop before I go home. Jassie's mother is making rhubarb pie."

Murdoch let the young woman buy her products, but was thinking the whole time. Jasper's mother was still alive, and it would be rather awkward to meet her, as his own mother was not she.

Dot led him along the dirt road that led out of the town, and they arrived soon at a simple log cabin. In the front stood a porch swing and a patch of beautiful flowers that grew in pinks, blues and reds on either side of the steps.

"This is our home," Dot smiled proudly; "we built it with our own hands. It isn't much, but we adore it."

"It is lovely," Murdoch replied.

"Hello!" she called to the house as they drew nearer. A massive shape on the porch moved. It rose to its feet, and, with a wagging tail and long, very wet tongue, came to over to its mistress. It licked her hands, then Murdoch's.

"Hello, Pilot old boy," she crooned, walking up the steps, the dog at her side.

"Pilot?" Murdoch asked.

"Oh yes," Dot replied, "I am a great lover of books, as is my husband. I am very familiar with the Bronte sister's works. I did a great deal of reading when I was with Effie, but now she is in the world, I seem to be able to do none." She laughed, and shepparded him inside, stopping the dog with her foot.

Inside was as pleasant as the outside. The cabin was decorated with many photographs of family, and the settee, though elderly, looked comfortable, a doily embroidered with pansies across its ridge.

The kitchen was visible from where they stood, and in it, Murdoch saw a table adorned with a jug of wildflowers and a little girl, partially hidden within her grandmother's skirts.

"Mummy!" she cried when she spotted Dot, "Mummy, you're home!" Effie darted from her grandmother to her mother, wrapping her little arms around Dot's legs.

"Darling," Dot looked down at the form wrapped securely about her, "Have you said hello to your uncle, Mr. Murdoch yet?" Effie looked apprehensively from her mother's skirts to sneak a peek at Murdoch.

"Hewo, Mister Murdoch," she said.

"Why hello," Murdoch replied, looking down into her eyes. They were the same color as her father's, and he wished ever more for his council. "You must be Effie." She nodded, and led her mother by the hand to the kitchen.

"Dorothy," the grandmother, a soft featured woman of about seventy said, "Do you have my flour?"

"Of course, Esther," she replied. "Have you met Mr. Murdoch? Jassie has spoken often about him." The old woman looked curiously at his face and her brows knitted. "He is Jasper's half brother; from the first marriage."

"I see," she said, "Pleasure. I am Esther Linney." She did not hold out her hand when Murdoch proffered his, but instead wrapped her arms around his shoulders, conscious of the rhubarb that stained her hands. Murdoch reciprocated the hug, and she looked back at him with a smile. "How is he; your father?"

"Well enough," Murdoch responded, detangling himself from her. "He is planning a venture in Nova Scotia last I heard. Something about sailing."

"Sailing!" she cried, clucking her tongue, "that bloody fool. Does he not remember how seasick he gets?"

"Apparently not," Murdoch replied.

"No matter," she said, "I must make my famous pie, and you, Ducky," she gestured to Effie, "must help me."

**AN: Thoughts? I liked that he could go see Jasper, and get to see Canada too. I am from western Canada, so those places and sights mentioned are very close to my heart. If you get a chance, it is as beautiful as the Swiss Alps in some parts, especially by Invermere and Kimberly. Anyway, the "Pilot" reference is from Jane Eyre, and the Kommando comment is **_**"the army is the last bastion for some." **_**Tell me what you think, and if you like the story, I'll write more!**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: In response to reviews;**

**-em shorty-It is always good to hear constructive criticism, and yah, I agree about Julia, but she is always breaking Murdoch's heart. It's a wee bit annoying how every time Murdoch thinks there could be a future for them, Julia crushes his dreams like a teeny fly. (*sigh* done my rant…)**

**-Tv Centric Universe- thanks for the review! I heard a spoiler from some TV website that "a certain someone from Bristol will come back and make a cameo appearance…" As well, yah, I know… Murdoch is a pacifist in the show, and probably would have a much better hold on his temper/ aggression, but after seeing his behavior in the show **_**I**_** wanted to beat him up :)**

It was two weeks and four days since Jasper had left Kamloops. His family had been much too kind to house Murdoch, and he felt himself becoming more of a fixture within their lives with each passing day. He worked for Dot, cutting wood and playing the part of a groom and ranch hand together, though his old injury still tugged at his back when he worked his muscles too hard for their liking.

Finally, though, the day did come when Esther and Effie sat on the front porch, making dolls with corn silk hair that Jasper did arrive.

He was dirty and his boots were shin high in mud, his usually tanned face even darker from exposure and dust. Effie's screech of joy was what brought Murdoch from the pasture and Dot from the parlor.

Jasper, upon seeing his half brother, looked shocked, then overjoyed. He took Effie into his arms and walk, slightly wearily, to Murdoch.

"Do my eyes deceive me?" He laughed, "Effie, darling, pinch me, I must be dreaming."

"I can assure you, you are not dreaming," Murdoch replied, "I am, unfortunately, very real. Your lovely wife has kept me for these weeks."

"Very good," Jasper nodded. He put Effie down gently and went to his wife who stood, beaming on the porch. He looked upon her with rapt eyes, and, in three bounds, took her into his arms and twirled her around, kissing her as he let her down. He said something that Murdoch could not hear, and Dot giggled, kissing his cheek.

Murdoch watched the scene, feeling an acute loneliness and desire for what his brother had. He had always seen himself with a woman like Dot, with a child like Effie, and a home like Jasper's. Too often he had been told that he was married to his work, and too often he had passed up his chance to find happiness.

When Jasper brought his little family into the parlor after dinner that night, he recounted the events of his trip, narrating the more daring segments with hand gestures and voice changes, as much for Effie's benefit as his own, all the while managing to seem not the least bit fatigued, though Murdoch noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the way he kept looking hazily into the fire when no one spoke to him.

Dot told him to go to bed, but he would hear none of it.

"Will," he said when Effie had been put to bed, "Come, we must speak." Murdoch allowed himself to be led outside onto the porch, away from the women. "What ails you so that you should come here, penniless and looking as you do?"

"Is something wrong with my appearance?" Murdoch asked, brows knitting. Jasper chuckled and shook his head.

"Tell me, why did you come out here?" He asked plainly.

"I suppose I needed to speak to you," Murdoch said, "You have it all figured out here. I just hoped that a word from you could help me figure out what I should do."

"About what?" Jasper asked. Murdoch then proceeded to tell him everything, not just about his sacking, but everything else leading up to, and in consequence to his maiming of Francis and the mess that had ensued.

When Murdoch was finished his story, Jasper sat back and let the air from his mouth escape in a rush.

"I do not know what to say, Will," he muttered, "I mean, what about Anna? You have spoken only of Doctor Ogden, not her. What is so lacking with her that you cannot be content?"

"You miss the point," Murdoch replied, "After losing my fiancée and then Julia, I feel lost—almost like I am swimming in an ocean, but there is no shore in sight. I have not been myself of late and fear that this change may be permanent."

"Nothing is permanent," Jasper scoffed, "Listen; if you wish to be back with the doctor then do it. Ask her what she thinks. If she loves you back then that is wonderful, but if she does not, then oh well, you win some, you lose some."

"But you don't understand," Murdoch said in a frustrated voice, "Julia is not—she cannot be classified in the 'some' variety. She is better than 'some.' Believe me, I tried to give Anna a chance, and yes, I did try to get Julia out of my head. By all counts Anna would be a better choice. She is pretty and intelligent and there is a future for her, but just not with me. I cannot pretend while I am with her I do not think of Julia."

"She's got you deep," Jasper remarked, watching his brother with a sort of surprise and awe.

"What am I to do?" Murdoch commiserated, shaking his head.

"Is she yet married or involved?" Jasper asked.

"Well no—," Murdoch began,

"Then go to her," Jasper said simply. "If you love her as much as you claim, then she must love you also."

"Then why would she have left for Buffalo?" Murdoch asked.

"Think about it," Jasper said, "did you tell her you loved her before she left?"

Well—no," Murdoch said, "there was never any time—I,"

"Then go and find her, it is as simple as that—and I'm not saying that you should give up everything and be heartbroken about it if she is with another man, but then you know that you've given it your best shot."

Murdoch considered this for a moment, and then smiled at his brother.

"Thank you, Jasper; your council has been much appreciated, though I do have one small problem to work out."

"That being?" Jasper asked.

"I left all my money in Toronto."

Jasper laughed and clapped Murdoch on the shoulder. "Not to worry, we'll get you back there in time to win the maiden's heart!"

**AN: sorry for the ridiculous delay, writers block is an almighty turd. Ah well, suggestions are always welcome! R&R… and a big surprise for the next chapter!**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Fa, no way… too lazy to write anything that actually matters…**

It wasn't as if he did not deserve it. Oh, he deserved it. So much. He had failed Julia. That was it. That was all.

Coming home was hard; with all the questions Mrs. Kitchen showered him with. They fell like shrapnel from a bomb across his skin, and he brushed them off the same way he had with Dot and Esther. Minimize the problem. It would go away if he did.

George, bless his obnoxious soul, had brought Betty along when he heard of the detective's arrival to Toronto. She had even taken the liberty upon herself to prepare a little coming-home party. Three months, Betty pertly asserted, was a very long time indeed to be away from home.

Among the welcomers were Henry Higgins, George and Betty (of course) and two very unexpected guests.

A doctor from Buffalo, recently moved to Toronto with his beautiful fiancée was in attendance. The doctor explained that the pathologist at the constabulary, Dr. Francis, had moved back to England after an unfortunate accident had felled his brother.

Murdoch was genuinely sorry to hear of it, but even more so to hear of the mystery doctor's engagement. When Darcy, the man had introduced his future wife, she had flown to her friend and former lover's arms. She told him that since Dr. Francis's untimely leave, and since she had been in Toronto at the time, she would be taking over for him at the morgue. "Just like old times," she had said with a smile, careful to conceal her new ring from sight. She was being modest, as always.

She and her fiancé, like George and Betty, stayed late, speaking of their lives, oblivious of the rubble that lay merely across the table from them. Ruins, but not so damaged as to be broken forever.

Hopefully.

Probably.

Anna was not there. George had sent a telegram to her, but she had been in New York at the time and could not make it back in time for the festivities. She sent her sincerest apologies, even forgiving Murdoch for his actions at the police station. She truly was an angel.

George and Betty were talking marriage. Betty glowed with the news, and George grinned from her happiness. Ruby Ogden would be disappointed.

By the time everyone left, it was late, and Murdoch retired to his tired, familiar old cot with a sigh. Julia was gone. The knowledge burned in the back of his mind but he couldn't release it. He had let his relationship with Enid go, forgotten, by the wayside because of Julia. Enid, with her son who had begun to treat him like a father; Enid, who had let him be who he needed to be.

Three women. Two broken hearts. Would he make Anna three?

**AN: Dum, Dum, DUMMMM! So, thoughts? I know, angsty and stuff, but whatevs, I didn't really have much of a plan for this chapter, so angst will do to fill in the rest. (Sorry for the discrepancies in the plot line (ya know, with the whole Julia/Murdoch pissing Francis off and stuff)**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: I'm back! Ya, sorry about the lateness of this getting up, but I was at the lake with no internet access for 2 weeks. **

"I'm pregnant!" cried Julia, managing to look beautiful even as she stood, wrist deep, in a patient's intestinal fluids. The constabulary had let him back in, but only by the sheer grace that Brakenried liked him, and hated Scanlon.

"What?" Murdoch replied, stunned.

"Yes, I know," she smiled, no, beamed. "I thought I was sterile. I knew I was. They all told me so. But I am not!"

"Are you sure?" Murdoch asked, wishing to kick himself as soon as he had said it. She looked taken aback.

"Well, yes, I am," she said back, "and two and a half months along, the doctor said. Oh, William, is that not splendid news? I am to be a mother!" She swiftly wiped her hands on her apron and Murdoch embraced her with a hug.

"What shall you name it?" Murdoch asked in a weak voice, barely managing to conceal his shock.

"Well, let me see," she said, an eye on the ceiling as one does when pondering, "It will be Luisa if it is a girl, and William if it is a boy."

"William?" Murdoch replied, eyebrows knitting in confusion.

"Yes, well of course it will be William Darcy. William is Darcy's father's name, and it is tradition in his family that the name of the grandfather precede that of the father." She gave a little shrug, "wouldn't want to go around ruining traditions, I suppose."

"No, we wouldn't," Murdoch replied.

"You do not seem happy to hear it?" it was her turn to look confused. Murdoch faked a smile and patted her shoulder.

"Of course I am happy," he said, "how could I not be? You are my friend and are going to have a baby." She looked relieved and smiled.

"I knew you would be. Ruby told me that you might take the news hard. I told him, of course not, and that you were my friend, and that as my friend you loved me enough to be happy for us."

_Happy for us,_ plural.

"—but Ruby and you are the only people who know, so you must give me your word that you will tell no one. I am planning to tell Darcy when we go away to visit his family in Buffalo. He has this lovely cottage there where his parents live with their help."

"His family can afford help?" Murdoch asked.

"Why yes," Julia nodded, "he comes from wealth, William. You know that. It is good too. Our child should have a happy upbringing with such a thing. Not to mention that Darcy's parents are such dolls. They will be ever so happy hear the news."

"I am sure they will be," Murdoch mumbled.

"So you'll be quiet, even to George?"

"Of course," Murdoch said, "not a word."

**AN: so thoughts? A twist at last! R&R**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: A little OOC or whatever in this chapter, because it had to move along. Sorry, but happy reading! *Oh, as well, no, Murdoch isn't the father. It was a pretty popular name back in those days, so it would not have been uncommon for Darcy's father to be named the same thing as Murdoch. It's a bit of a kicker, though. **

Murdoch did not have to keep his promise to Dr. Ogden for long. Well, not when it came to being tight-lipped with George.

Murdoch, who had begun to fail to surprise anyone with his seesawing moods, was unusually morose of late and insisted on taking the most unpleasant, after-hours bum shifts the constabulary ever cooked up. In addition, he had taken on a class teaching first year constables detecting basics mere days after Julia told him the news.

George, working late as well studying for Murdoch's class, first brought up the issue of Dr. Ogden while the two men sat in companionable silence, one, the teacher, working on his latest piece of technology, and the other, his student, studying theories and methods of modern policing.

"Sir," he said with a sigh, pencil poised above his paper, "today Betty and Dr. Ogden were out for lunch and Dr. Ogden told her something that surprised both her and I. Now, sir, Dr. Ogden made Betty promise—no, swear not to tell, and she told me. The news was too much for her, and now it seems that it is too much for me. I wouldn't be telling you this, because I promised—but I thought you should know."

"Stop," Murdoch said, glancing at the young constable, "I know what you are going to say."

"Oh, no, sir," George disagreed, "this is something that is bigger than anything you could cook up in even your super mind."

"I know about Dr. Ogden," Murdoch replied tiredly, "And I know why it shouldn't have happened." George looked a little surprised, but recovered and asked,

"That's why you've been taking on more work," he nodded, "This is good; I couldn't have written better in my novel." His eyes lit up when he said it, and he reached for his pocketbook.

"Good?" Murdoch demanded, "Good? How is this in any way good? This—this—sucks. Why did I let her go? I'm a right bugger to have imagined that I could continue on, and that she would wait for me. Goddamn it."

"Sir," George cut in, "the Lord. Remember the Lord." George's hand slowly receded from its destination in his breast pocket and he looked wary.

"Awe, stop that George. There is no God—hell, maybe, because I seem to be living in it, but no heaven. Happy with Anna, a girl who actually wants me? Never. I'm an imbecile to think that I could care about her." His speech was delivered in a near whisper, and George sat back in his chair, impressed. He had not heard more than that from his superior since he first began work at the constabulary.

"Well, sir," George said with an air of conviction in his voice, "You have been thrown for a right loop, but I don't see why you cannot take the Ruby's of this world and see them in the Betty's. The Betty's are incredible, sir. While the Ruby's may be exotic, they won't ever go for men like us. They are too fine for this world. The Betty's make wives, mothers and best friends. The Julia's and Ruby's don't."

"I didn't realize you felt that way about Ruby, George."

"I used to," Crabtree replied, "but she's old hat now, I suppose."

"Suppose," Murdoch agreed.

"Anyway, I don't see you as being the type that would mope. Oh, sir?"

"Yes?"

"Another thing. A telegram came for you from Edinburgh yesterday evening. I never looked at it, but the inspector did. He nearly died when he read it. I didn't pry though sir." He seemed to be waiting for Murdoch to pry further. He didn't.

George waited for a moment, but when he didn't get a reply, he changed topics.

"What about that name, eh? William… any significance, do ya think?"

"It was Darcy's father's name," Murdoch replied in a hollow voice.

"Bullocks," George replied, "I think that that was her excuse. It's not my place, but I think she still loves you. If she can't have you, she'll name her baby after you."

"Loves me?" Murdoch replied incredulously, "I have a very hard time believing that."

"Oh, but sir, it is obvious. Just go ask Miss Pencil if it's not. She has never seen you two very much, but she could tell, I bet." Murdoch opened his mouth to protest, but George barreled along saying, "Actually, speaking of that, Miss Pencil will be performing palmistry and tarot card readings at the Penny Fair. Bet and I are going with Dr. Gardener and Dr. Ogden, and wanted to know if you wanted to come." Murdoch again opened his mouth to protest, but George was quicker "…Now I know what you will say, so save it. You need to get out sometimes and have some fun."

"Will I not be a third wheel, though, George?" Murdoch asked skeptically.

"Oh no, sir, I thought of that already, so I have enlisted the help of Miss Fulford. As you know she is coming home tomorrow morning. We policemen aren't supposed to partake in gambling, but maybe if we can convince Henry to play a bit at E.O, we could go home with some more money in our pockets. You know how good he is at it."

"Only because the other players were blind drunk," Murdoch countered.

"Well, anyway, what do you say?"

"I don't know…"

"Trust me, what could go wrong?"

**AN: famous last words! (side note: O.E is a gambling game played at fairs)**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: What's with the sadists on the show? I just saw Murdoch's sister tell him she was dying… seriously? Those writers really have it in for him… sheesh… as well, sorry for the long delay, I was away yet again. Thank you for the lovely reviews, they make me happy, and I have a twist up my sleeve that might work… :) *Queue evil music***

The morning of the Penny Fair dawned bright and welcoming; not at all mirroring the thunderous mood Murdoch found himself in. He had not slept a wink that night and had spent the entirety of the midnight hours lying awake; listening to the gentle drumming of rain as it splattered on his cracked, rain-rotted windowsill and across the tin roof Mrs. Kitchen had erected as to perform repairs on the wooden shingles beneath.

He imagined the baby; Julia's baby, with soft blond curls like its mother and plump, healthy cheeks that became rosy when it laughed. He saw it giggling in its mother's arms, and watched a moment later, in a state of pure loathing and jealousy, as Darcy took the child from Julia and held it close to his chest.

He contemplated lying to Anna and telling her that he could not make it to the fair, and that she would have to call Henry to escort her, but, in retrospect, he saw that he had done enough damage to their relationship already to risk further harm to their delicately built trust.

Soon, the rain stopped and the morning dawned, and Murdoch, not changed from the night before, sat blearily up. _Lord,_ he thought, _why is it always when you cannot sleep that you feel you must?_

He shaved apathetically and ate his breakfast in silence, Mrs. Kitchen watching him like a hen, concerned frown across her motherly face.

"You will have no more?" she questioned when he brought his plate to the sink.

Murdoch started. The lack of sleep had made him jumpy.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Kitchen," he replied. "I will not be home until late tonight, so I was wondering…"

"If I could give you the key, yes," she replied knowingly, "Another stint at the office, then?"

"No," Murdoch said, "Actually, I am going out with some friends." Mrs. Kitchen smiled; pleased that her favorite tenant was finally doing something that would please his heat, not only his mind. She patted his hand and said, with a little nod,

"It does my heart good to see you well."

Murdoch did not know how to reply to her, and when she gave him the house key he took it with only the barest of thanks.

George and Betty were waiting for him on the steps when he arrived outside. Betty wore a pretty blue summer dress and beribboned straw bonnet while George succeeded in looking well groomed and proper in a navy blue blazer and silver tipped suspenders. All this show of niceties made Murdoch feel dreadfully underdressed in his familiar worn suit and dark bowler.

"Shall we go?" George asked, glancing at Betty and then Murdoch, "We do not to be late for the Julia and Darcy." In public, George referred to the doctor and her fiancée with their Christian names, as, presumably, the two couples had become closer, but it still seemed odd to hear Julia's name issued from the constable's lips in such a casual and familiar manner.

"Yes," Betty smiled, following George, who had already moved off the waiting coach. Murdoch followed her and, until they reached the Gardener house, those were the last words spoken.

Murdoch was surprised to see Anna waiting for them there, sitting on the veranda sipping cold cider with Dr. Ogden. She looked pretty, but when he looked at the doctor, she seemed radiant, perhaps with what Murdoch perceived to be motherhood. Darcy was nowhere to be seen.

When the carriage pulled up, the two women stood, abandoning their drinks, and walked, grinning, to the waiting party. Murdoch, who had begun to hope Darcy would not be accompanying them, looked past the doctor and Anna to see none other than the man himself locking the house and placing his hat, a bowler like Murdoch's, upon his head. He adjusted it as he too, came to the carriage and the three newcomers crammed in uncomfortably close to their neighbors in the cab confines.

Darcy nodded at Murdoch and he likewise mumbled a greeting while the women began a conversation on the fair's flower competition. Dr. Ogden had entered it, and so had Betty, both playfully arguing over who had the best azaleas.

Anna looked uncomfortable and said little the whole way, but when they arrived and Darcy, to Murdoch's chagrin, paid the cabbie, she slipped down out of the carriage and gave Murdoch a meaningful look.

"Will," she said in a voice that filled his heart with dread, "I found a place in New York. I thought I hated it there, but when I went back I found the perfect place for the pub. I'm moving, William. Please enjoy today with me, I will be back in New York to purchase the deed on Wednesday."

"So soon?" Murdoch said aghast, "I would have hoped you would stay a while longer at least."

"No," she replied, and Murdoch could see she was struggling to say something. George tapped his shoulder then, and Anna was cut off by the whooping of a carnie, somewhere nearby.

"What a show," George said to Darcy as they looked up at the Ferris wheel and sword swallowers, standing, half clothed, on a stage in one of the stalls. George grinned as he caught sight of his fellow constables, standing, looking bored, against the wall of a lemonade stand. They had been assigned to keep an eye of the proceedings for the afternoon, and, judging by their stance, there had been very little action.

He waved to them, and they waved back, but he did not go to see them. Instead, he directed the little group to a table where a balding, middle aged carnie held the attention of a small crowd with a game of Over-and-Under, the petty gambling game with one dice that tended to favor the house.

When the carnie saw Murdoch approaching curiously, he fixed Murdoch with an unnatural stare and said, "Hey, come bet, Jack. There's a winner every game."

Murdoch did not respond to the derogatory term for a detective, but turned away without a confrontation and met Anna with a shake of his head. "That is a way to get money from an idiot who thinks he can outsmart the banker." No sooner had he said that, than he saw, with an exasperated sigh, George, making his way over to the macer's table. Murdoch followed his constable, and when he was about flush with the seedy little man, Murdoch pulled George to the side and scolded him for such simplemindedness.

Cowed but not deflated, George proposed a trip on the Ferris wheel, a rare treat that would give the couples a view of the growing city of Toronto from the air. The agreement from Dr. Ogden, Darcy, Betty and George was unanimous, but Anna looked slightly repulsed at the prospect of height, and Murdoch seconded that notion with enthusiasm. If the other couples were away, Anna could tell him what she had been meaning to say since the beginning of the night.

Anna invented an excuse as to why she would not ride, and Murdoch followed her to a bench nearby, watching the reflection of the massive wheel in her eyes.

"Anna," he began, "what is it?"

"What is what?" she asked, waving suddenly to Dr. Ogden as she was hoisted into the sky, Darcy by her side.

"Come now," Murdoch chided, "You have wanted to tell me something. What is it?"

Anna took a deep breath.

"I'm leaving you."

The words were like a stinging blow against his skin, and he found that the world seemed to slow, and stop, in the wake of her devastating words.

"Why?" he heard himself asking, though he already knew.

"It won't work between us," she said, fiddling with her gloves in her lap, "We were never meant to be together permanently. We want different things, you and I."

Murdoch did not reply, but focused his attention blindly on the wheel. Suddenly he wanted to shred something; to be told that he was dreaming… to punch a wall. Anything.

"I see," he made his voice level and as understanding as he dared.

"You'll see," Anna responded brightly, "you'll see that it was for the better. I know you will."

"Who is he?" Murdoch replied in a flat, humorless voice.

"Who—? No," she shook her head, "No," but she looked into his eyes and saw that he could not be deceived so easily, and relented with a sigh. "His name is Isaac Wulfe. I met him in New York and he offered to set me up with a loan. We started talking and—," she shrugged, "I think he will be great. He likes the same things as me, and he's…" she trailed off, "it's like he has known me his entire life and I him."

And so Murdoch was abandoned for another. Great.

Before Murdoch could make an angry retort, or bolt, he spied the Over-Under carnie at a nearby stall, speaking quietly to a hard-faced, dark haired youth who appeared to be his son. The boy kept glancing around nervously, but the father kept his eyes on the boy, speaking with little hand gestures and movements.

"William?" Julia asked, making him jump. He was so absorbed with the carnies that he had not even noticed the couple's return or the fact that Anna now stood, replacing her gloves, and looking expectantly at Murdoch. He fought the urge to ask 'what?'

"Well," she faked a yawn, "I must be away. The travel from New York was indeed tiresome." Her friends nodded sympathetically. They knew the distance.

Murdoch watched her say goodbye to the others, but she merely nodded shyly at her former lover, the passion gone from her eyes.

George, it seemed, noticed something wrong, and asked Anna, as she was leaving, "Do you not want to see Miss Pencil today? She helped us with her visions at the constabulary a couple of times, and is very accurate." He looked between Murdoch's stony face and her apathetic one.

"Oh, no, George," she declined, "I will not go, but you should take William. I am sure he would be more than thrilled to hear what Miss—er, Pencil has to say." Murdoch glared daggers at her retreating back as she moved off across the fairgrounds and out of sight.

George spied his boss with what Murdoch could only assume to be pure, unrestrained enthusiasm and he had to force himself not to shudder at the evil sight.

"You heard the lady," George said, hauling Murdoch to his feet, "up and at em. Let's go."

"But really—," Murdoch protested, fighting the constable's grip as he was dragged towards Miss Pencil's tent.

"Bullocks," George brushed off Murdoch's complaints. There were two people ahead of them in line; an awkward teenage boy and his giggling beau. Murdoch crossed his arms and refused to look at George in a decidedly childlike fashion.

They waited for what felt like an hour, and then the teenagers were allowed in. As they disappeared through the tent flap Murdoch saw Miss Pencil, dressed ridiculously in a tall midnight purple turban adorned with a large paste ruby and ostrich feather. She flashed a mischievous smile at him when she saw him looking.

The session with the children took less time than expected, but when Murdoch was called in, the couple still had not come out. It was odd, Murdoch thought, but did Miss's Pencils voice sound huskier when he was called?

He entered the tent and went to where Miss Pencil sat on a cushion, a crystal ball poised in front of her and dirty grey rag stuffed in her mouth.

Then Murdoch saw two shapes on the floor. The bodies were horribly mutilated, and the girl's neck had been severed so deep that her head fell at an impossible angle from her, the skin bloodied and dark.

Murdoch looked at Miss Pencil in horror, and saw, in that moment, the same face mirrored on hers. He also noticed, in that split second, that her hands were bound behind her back and she struggled against her bindings. She screamed, but it came out as barely a whisper against the fabric.

Before Murdoch could call out, two sets of heavy arms encircled his, and he felt a rough hand muffle his cry.

He saw, then, the middle-aged carnie, a gleaming knife in his hand, enter the tent and survey Murdoch coolly. "Well done Matt. You bagged yourself a copper." He turned to Miss Pencil.

"And what shall we do with you?" He asked in a sick, sadistic tone. "I have no need for the likes of you." He touched the tip of his knife to her chin, "but my, you are a beauty." Miss Pencil quivered with disgust and tried to struggle away. He let his hand come down hard and slap her. She let out a sound like a wounded animal, and narrowed her eyes.

"Do you want her?" he asked, glancing at his brutish son. The boy looked Miss Pencil up and down once, then shook his head.

"I don't fuck witches," he said simply.

His father gave a short laugh and then focused his attention on Murdoch.

"I am going to kill her, here; right now. If you say a word she will die a more painful death than you could ever imagine."

Murdoch struggled violently as the knife came to rest at the hollow of Miss Pencil's neck. The old carnie pressed it slightly, as if to prove his point, and small beads of blood began to form on the blade edge.

_George, come in, please,_ Murdoch begged mentally. George did not, and Murdoch felt nervous perspiration form on his brow.

"Ransom, father?" the boy asked.

"Not for the fortune teller," scoffed his father, "She won't fetch a good price. Not here, anyway. It's the detective that we want." He moved towards Murdoch and pinioned him between himself and his son, tying Murdoch's hands with a length of rope retrieved from his pocket. "He'll make more for us than anything we've ever seen. No more taking wares to the dollyshop. Her, on the other hand," he gestured to the terrified form of Miss Pencil, "would have to be bartered on the down low. It's not worth the risk." Miss Pencil's eyes widened as she realized the verdict.

"I'll let you do this one," the older man said to the boy, helping him to gag Murdoch. He took the boy's place manhandling Murdoch into stillness, and held his knife to his throat.

The boy reached inside his coat pocket and retrieved a switchblade. Murdoch's heart went cold with dread. Unemotionally, the boy approached Miss Pencil and stroked her cheek with the dull edge of the blade.

He whispered something in her ear that made her whimper with fright, then he plunged the knife deep into her jugular. She let out a strangled moan and blood gushed from her throat and mouth, soaking the gag and running, in bubbly rivers, down her chin and neck.

The boy dislodged the knife and did it again, hacking at her like a hunter at a deer carcass. Miss Pencil fell to the floor. The boy kicked her aside and flipped the knife, still bloodied, into his vest pocket.

_Where was George? Certainly he could have heard the ruckus in the tent? _

The boy smiled evilly at his father.

"Very good, my son," the older man said. "Now help me get the Jack in the caravan."

**AN: I know this was longer, but I wanted to get some new stuff out there. What do you think? I like the way this one was written, because I decided to develop the plot a little more, but I felt that a character needed to die for the story to live. (I liked Miss Pencil, but oh well) As always, R&R!**


	11. Chapter 11

Murdoch awoke with his head on fire. Blood had dried in his hair, and when he moved, it cracked and strained at the strands. The room about him seemed quiet, but when he attempted to stand, he found his legs and wrists to be bound, and he stumbled, crashing into a shelf and toppling the many farm tools and books upon it.

He winced, and someone moved. It was the son, and he grinned cruelly at Murdoch.

"Had a good sleep?" He asked. Murdoch was silent. "Well, I know I did. I slept like a baby imagining all the money we'll get for your release."

"Money?" Murdoch scoffed, knowing that if there was no money, they would kill him, but proceeding anyway. "What money? I am not worth the money of the city."

"I'll bet you're worth the money of Julia Ogden." Murdoch blanched and struggled more violently at his restraints. He knew the typical comment of 'you leave her out of this!' would only do to increase the kidnappers conviction that they would get what they wanted, so he struggled to a sitting position and watched his captor ruefully.

"You honestly don't remember me, do you?" the boy asked, laughing. "I thought you would." Murdoch squinted, but saw no resemblance. "Come now, think," the boy shifted from his left foot to his right. Murdoch saw it. The boy had a slight limp and when he looked at Murdoch, he noted that one of the boy's eyes were brown, while the other a light blue.

The limp had no bearing on this recognition; however, it merely served to prove Murdoch's assumption of the boy having a hard life, especially after escaping the police in the Grimesby case.

"Harcourt Grimesby?" Murdoch said incredulously.

"Harcourt?" The boy's lips curved in a sneer, "You forget that he's dead, Murdoch."

"So that man…"

"Is not my father, no. I thought you'd recognize him too. He was a man you nearly got strung up when you were still a beat cop. Remember Joe Glastonbury?" Murdoch's brow furrowed, but only a slight recollection of that name lingered in his memory. "Anyway, I just dropped by to say that there is no way you will ever be seen alive by your friends. Once we get the money, then…" Mycroft drew his hand across his throat and stuck out his tongue. He grinned at Murdoch's disgusted expression. "Okie dokie, then. I'm off to gain a ransom. Do make yourself at home."

Doctor Julia Ogden had woken early that morning, leaving her fiancé snoring in the bedroom. Her mind was not on him. It never was these days. Murdoch had been gone for mere hours, but she could not stop thinking of his face, and the crushing thought that she may never see it again.

Darcy still did not know about her and the detective, and she preferred to keep it that way. He would be jealous, of course, and might demand that she leave the employ of the constabulary if he knew the full extent of their relationship. The effects had not been dulled over time or her engagement to Darcy; if anything it made the way she felt about Murdoch more potent, like a forbidden thing that she could not have without risking her very existence. In hindsight it should have been his child growing within her, but she wouldn't worry about that.

She shook her head. That was nonsensical talk.

Drowsily, she poured her morning tea and stepped out onto the veranda of her expensive acreage, nearly walking over a small note, folded and sealed with wax, on the welcome mat. Curiously, she bent to retrieve it, only to find that she needed a letter opener to break the seal.

Sighing, she walked back inside, placed her tea on the counter, and set to work on it. A small glass vial dropped when she unfolded the letter and dropped on the floor, staining it with dark crimson liquid. Julia gasped, but decided to read.

Julia Ogden,

We **want $**100,000 for your detective. **I**f you do not give us the ranso**m, t**hat is not the last** o**f his blood that **wi**ll spill. Coulee Mill. Thursday at midn**ig**ht.

X

**AN: Sorry for the late updating, I just wanted to finish off the series before I started writing again. I just want to say that I. HATE. THE. MURDOCH. PEOPLE. They better come out with that darn season 5 or so help me…. But reviews are always welcome :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: More for you! Sorry about not writing, got writers block and hit a bit of a brick wall with the story. Hope you still want to read it, but if not… I guess it will be for me XD**

**I know the ransom is steep, but Julia is loaded in the stories, and as Jane Austen said, "He makes $10,000 a year," so I bet if Darcy of Pemberly can do, it so could whoever gave her the fortune. Oh ya, and for the record, Jane's Darcy rocks, this Darcy sucks. :P**

"How did you think I'd react?" A furious Darcy demanded, holding the ransom note high, just out of Julia's reach, "Did you think I'd be happy to know that you and the detective were involved enough for you to get this note? Why didn't they send it to his sister, for Land's sake?"

"She died yesterday," Julia responded quietly, "I don't think Detective Murdoch knows yet even."

"Yet they knew and didn't send this to her, thinking she was still alive?" Darcy fumed.

"It was no secret that she was ill," Julia countered, "anyway, I don't see how you interrogating me will solve this. No matter who he used to be, his is still my friend, and if we don't give them the money he will _die,_ don't you understand?"

Darcy stood there for a moment, considering her words. Women did not speak so to their husbands, much less so to their fiancés and her petulance aggravated him, but he forced his voice to remain calm.

"How much headway is George making?" Darcy said suddenly, lowering the note and turning it over in his gloved hand. Julia had insisted that they wear them when handling the note as to not smudge finger marks, and before knowing the nature of the Doctor and the Detective's relationship, had agreed.

"Not much," Julia sighed, sitting down on the parlor settee, the weight of carrying a child already becoming tiresome. "He has Betty making coffee rounds every few hours so that the constables can stay awake, but try as they might, they haven't found anything thus far."

"This damn note," Darcy muttered, his voice growing louder as he spoke to a tone Julia had never heard, "it should have never come to us. It—it should be burned." He looked at the note and crumpled it into a tight ball in his hand. It was cold that morning and a fire was blazing in the hearth… Julia realized a moment too late what Darcy was going to do.

With a frustrated sound, Darcy threw the crumpled letter into the flames, sending the gloves he had been wearing after it.

Julia cried out, but Darcy refused to look at her, merely watching the flames lap at the cotton and parchment, the only clue that they had gotten.

"You know they could arrest you for that!" Julia said as if the wind had been knocked from her chest, "you know that you just destroyed evidence… I'll—I'll have to tell George—,"

"Why?" Darcy replied, looking at her now with a sort of pleading uncertainty, "You do not want your child being born without a father, as surely as I do not want a child in this world who is ashamed of me for going to prison all because of a note about his mother's lover."

"He—he is _not_ my _lover_," Julia yelled, rising to her feet, angrier now than she could remember being, "And you have just ruined our chances of finding him. If he dies, you have killed him." Angry tears rose in her eyes, and she hid her face to hide them.

Darcy paused when she said that, and with a calmness she would not have thought fathomable, said, "I am sorry to have upset you. If another note comes, send it on to the police station. I wish to hear nothing of it." With that, he quit the room.

Julia watched him go, then, mournfully, she went to the fire and stared at the burning embers of the gloves and note. She thought about the Detective often now, far too often for an engaged woman to, and thought that if she had not been so stubborn, she would be marrying him, and it would be alright.

Ruby would be along soon to take her to the police station. She stood from her place by the fire and, with one last look into the flames, summoned a servant to quell them.

**So, I know I've sucked like Darcy Garland and not written, but I've got some new ideas, (yay!) so I will make sure to update soon-ish) As always, R&R cuz they make me happy : ) **


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: I did, indeed, write more, so writers block be damned! **

George, Acting Detective for the Murdoch Case as well as a potential suspect (Brakenried dismissed this but the men at the other stations nevertheless wondered,) sat, grey faced and bleary-eyed, holding a steaming mug of fresh coffee in his hands. He had gone over the crime scene photographs in sickening detail, heard tell of Ms. Pencil's internal functions, and been subject to Dr. Ogden's confession of Darcy's treachery, all to be held up at one stupid, simple fact. Who had escaped that would know of Murdoch's closeness with Dr. Ogden and wish to exploit it for money and not simply revenge, for surely that was what they wanted.

Again, he reprimanded himself for his naivety. Just because people were criminals, didn't mean they were stupid. Of course if they had known about Julia's wealth they would want a part, but once they got it they surely would kill Murdoch… and he still didn't know who the kidnapper might be.

Although Murdoch's chalkboard was covered on both slates with names, dates and crimes, there were just so many people who could be considered that George found himself staring at it, eyes glazed and coffee slowly burning a hole in his hands. He only noticed when the Inspector knocked on the door, causing him, in his semi-meditative state, to jump, and subsequently spill the hot liquid on his hands and jacket.

Cursing, he put the cup down and wiped his hands on his pant legs, looking up to see Brakenried, a look of grim determination on his face. He seemed to be as tired as George, and George had not slept in nearly the 72 hours since Murdoch's disappearance, save for the spare seconds when he would nod off or Betty would force him to go to bed.

"Anything new?" Brakenried asked wearily, as if the news would undoubtedly be bad.

"The only note we got," George hesitated with lying to the inspector, "was addressed to Dr. Ogden, and when she was out, her maid threw it in the trash. We haven't been able to find it, though Lord knows we've tried."

"So cold again?" The Inspector said in one of his rare quiet moments.

"No sir," George countered, thinking of the only bright side in the case, "The kidnappers wanted money, so it is unlikely that they will just kill Detective Murdoch without first receiving payment from some source. There is a chance that, without getting their money, they will get angry and write again, and as I have instructed Doctor Ogden, she will bring it here for us to analyze. She remembers the amount they wanted, as I have told you already, and the meeting place—Coulee Mill, except not the time. There are men posted there tonight to see if there are any suspicious activities and all have permission to fire if guns should be drawn, but I don't think they will see anyone. The killers may be trying the Doctor out, and may have left a false trail just to see if she is taking the bait."

"I guess," The Inspector shrugged. "Have you any suspects for now, though?"

"Quite a few," George replied, "though I have narrowed the list a bit by looking through the families of the convicts, the census records and such,"

"I see the Grimesby lad is on your list," Brakenried commented, eyebrows drawn. "Never did catch that bugger, did we?"

"No sir, but it seems highly unlikely that a man of his appearance and caliber should just waltz into Toronto without _someone_ noticing him."

"Is it?" Brakenried asked, "After all this time? It's been years since that case, the public may have forgotten."

"Maybe, but the Fair people don't report seeing anything out of the ordinary, and when we showed them his picture, they told us that they had never seen him before, although the fudge vendor, a Mr. Sharpe, did report the cards man acting peculiar and making regular trips to and from his caravan, which he locked after each time."

"And this fudge vendor knows this how?"

"He had a stall near the man's caravan and often went back and forth to his own for supplies." This seemed to interest the Inspector, and his face hardened into an unreadable mask.

"Who is the dealer— or cards man as you called it, then?"

"A man who called himself Tryan, Tryan Cachme."

"Bullocks," Brakenried threw his hands in the air, "this bastard is mocking us. Who would have believed a name like that anyway?"

"I have heard odd names of late sir," George replied, "why just last week—," He was cut off when he caught the look in his boss's eye, and he turned his eyes back to the board. "If I could think like Murdoch, he'd already be found."

"That's the problem," Brakenried said, shaking his head, "no one can think like Murdoch, that's why I kept the git around."

Just then Higgins burst into the room, looking tired like the rest of the men, but excited.

"Another letter has arrived!" he called, waving the article in the air.

"When did you get that?" demanded George, taking the letter from his colleague gingerly, as if it would shatter from his touch. He then placed it on the desk and took out his handkerchief. Careful not to let his finger marks touch the actual document, he opened used a letter opener and with a pair of tweezers left on Murdoch's desk, pulled the paper out. The other men had filed in when they heard Henry's declaration, and now stood around waiting to hear what the note said.

The writing was not familiar. "Does anyone have any written documents by Mycroft Grimesby?" George demanded suddenly, looking out among the haggard faces in the crowd.

"There was a letter that he supposedly wrote to his father that didn't matter, but we put it in evidence," a young constable by the name of Jones said, "I was cleaning that room not last week when I found it loose and filed it. Do you want it?"

"Yes, get it now," Brakenried said, causing the young man to rush from the room. Like most new recruits, this boy knew that the situation was dire, and so was the Inspector's temper. He turned to George, "what does it say?"

"Dearest Friends, (he read,) it seems you have been deceived. That last letter was burned, (a collective muttering went around at this,) and so you could not find us. The amount is still the same, but now, for your idiocy, there shall be another price to pay. If the money is not delivered by the woman," George looked up and Brakenried nodded for him to continue, "Alone, without the police, we will give her your detective for the money. If anything should go wrong, say you try to show up and save the day, they will both be killed and we will take our money. Signed, Tryan Cachme."

"What now?" Higgins asked, looking uncertain.

"We compare the writing with Grimesby's and see what turns up, then speak to the fudge vendor and get a good description of our kidnapper come morning. I can't help but think the two are involved somehow." Higgins nodded, and Jones entered the room.

George took the writing from him and held the two documents side-by-side. They were an exact match.

**AN: Thanks for the reviews, l love them! If you guys have any ideas or suggestions just tell me, I'd love to hear them, or if you just like the story or want to comment, by all means. I have some free time coming up so I am planning on updating v-e-r-y soon. As always, R&R**

**PS**

**Tryan Cachme, so cheesy I just had to add it ; )**


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: so I lied. I haven't been able to update soon, but here is a new chapter. Oh, I changed the intro, do u think it's too dramatic? **

Julia, puffy-eyed and cold, stood with Betty at the station, playing with her engagement ring and biting her lip.

"He'll be alright, won't he?" She asked, looking at Betty with pleading eyes,

"I am sure he will be," her friend replied, eyes worried at her false assurance.

"I don't know what to say or think," Julia continued, "Darcy is furious at me for even associating with William. He is far too noble to leave me, but I worry that I am not noble enough to stay."

"Think of the child," Betty advised, "He or she will need a good family to grow up in. If Darcy is not the type that would make a good father then you must make that decision."

"Yes, but I cannot be a single mother. I have to work, to make money. I could not devote the time it would take to raise a child without Darcy. If it is a son, who will teach him to hunt and fish and tie knots?"

"Does your father not fish or hunt?" Betty asked.

"Yes, but that does not matter. I apologize," Julia changed the topic, "I gripe for myself and do not think what I can do to help find Detective Murdoch."

"Quite," George said, coming to stand beside the women, only have been privy to the last part of Julia's speech. "Betty dear, could you go home and fetch some more coffee?"

"Of course," Betty replied, kissing her beau affectionately on the cheek, "I won't be long."

Julia looked into the young man's face and was not fooled. There was a reason he dismissed Betty.

"What is it?"

"A trunk came not an hour ago."

Julia clutched her stomach and felt like retching.

"You don't think….?" But George's expression said that he did think.

"We have not opened it yet, doctor. We wanted to wait for you." George gestured for her to follow him, and they moved into Brakenried's office where a large trunk stood malevolently.

"Open it then, Brakenried ordered, coming into the room and closing the door.

"Oh God," George whispered, lifting the lid.

**AN: okay, so I know it was disgracefully short, but what's in the trunk? Murdoch? A spleen? Or nothing? More torture for our hero? R&R if you dare! (but seriously, what's in the box?)**


	15. Chapter 15

George opened the lid and Julia turned to be sick.

Inside, with a small note, was a set of hands and a pocket watch Julia knew to be Murdoch's. Brakenried swore and looked away.

Bloody hell, those aren't—?"

"I'll have to take them back to the morgue to be sure," Julia said, barely looking at the bloody remains. "What does the note say?"

George, wincing, took the note from the trunk and read it aloud.

"Every time you refuse to pay, we chop off one more piece of him."

….

Murdoch gasped and struggled against his bindings.

"Your friends have not paid us yet," Grimesby said, waving a thick serrated metal cooking knife in front of his victim's face, "I think they need a little encouragement." Grimesby turned to another man, tied like Murdoch, his eyes wild. "Hold out your hands, Mr. Francis." Murdoch's old coroner struggled as Mycroft pulled one of his arms from the restraints that held him by the wrists to his chair.

"Don't do it," Murdoch warned, sickening feeling starting in his belly.

"Oh, but we must," Mycroft said, "though I do wish it would be less messy."

"Don't do it," Francis said, sweat running down his brow and voice shaking, "I implore you,"

"It's too late for that," Mycroft replied.

"Do it to me," Murdoch said, "A coroner needs his hands to work. I don't."

"Ah, but you see, I don't want your hands. I want his," Mycroft waved the knife in Francis's direction, "and I want you to watch." Mycroft put the blade to Francis's wrist and pressed it so that it drew blood. The doctor winced. Mycroft pushed harder and began to saw.

At first Francis did no more than gasp, but as the cut became deeper, his breath came out in shallow gasps and he said, in a strangled whisper, "Murdoch, please," but Murdoch could do nothing to help him.

The knife made an awful noise as it started to saw at bone, and, the pain becoming too much, Francis's cries of agony rang like the call of a dying animal through the room.

Murdoch looked away, and Mycroft dropped the knife to come to his second victim.

"You will watch him suffer," Mycroft leered, turning Murdoch's face towards the other man's with a bloody hand.

Murdoch turned to see Dr. Francis, apparently unconscious.

"Now, where were we?"

**AN: Dum Dum Dummmm! So thoughts? A short one again, but I like the suspense… :)**


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: Sorry for the horridly long wait, I have been incredibly busy. I know it's not an excuse, but…**

"I've matched the finger prints," Julia said, face white.

George and Brakenried, who had been loitering in the morgue while she analyzed the remains, leaned forward a little more in their seats.

"They aren't from the Detective, but from the old mortician here, Dr. Francis." She frowned and put her hands on her hips in a frustrated gesture.

"I thought he was in England?" George asked.

"Yes, so did I," Julia replied.

"Look into it, Crabtree," Brakenried ordered, "I want to know what he was doing back here and why." George nodded and left the room. "Are you sure you can handle this with the baby?" he asked when George was safely out of earshot. "I promise we'll find him, but in the meantime you should really get some rest. Doctor Warwick from station two can take over."

"No," Julia replied forcefully, "I am the one who got the detective into this mess; I must help to get him out."

"You still care for him," Brakenried said, in an uncharacteristic bout of sensitivity.

"I—no, of course not," Julia faltered, "We are friends, and I merely feel obligated to help him is all."

"Ok, well, get home and get some sleep," he replied, "I have a feeling this case will break soon."


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: New stuff! Yay! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and added my story/favorite author thing to their alerts, I know I've said it before (or have I?) but you guys are great! **

The break in the case did come.

George had been at the station house for nearly two hours already on Saturday morning when Julia streaked in, another letter in her white gloved hand.

"They slipped up," she almost yelled, "look at this!"

George came over and they laid the letter, facedown, on a neighboring desk. Julia turned on the gaslight and they studied the envelope carefully. On the back there was a faint imprint of an address, barely recognizable if it had not been thrown into sharp relief by the light.

"Do you think—?" Julia asked, pushing her face closer to the paper.

"It's worth a try," George rubbed his eyes, "we haven't had any luck so far. I am inclined to think it may be a trap, but if we bring enough men and equip ourselves as such we should have a fighting chance… I'll call the inspector and see what he thinks."

"I'll come with you," Julia said suddenly as George was halfway across the room. He paused and looked confused.

"I'm just getting the telephone," He said.

"I know that, but I want to—,"

"You can't come on the stakeout," George looked resigned,

"But—,"

"This isn't about simple Muck Snipes trying to make a penny, it's about dangerous criminals. Your remember what Mycroft did to his brother when they were so young? He _killed_ his own brother without remorse; what makes you think he'll think twice about us?" He put emphasis on the word "killed," in the hopes that Julia would think twice, but she stared back at him, stony-faced.

"I. Want. To. Go."

"I can't let you," George shook his head, "with the kid on the way, I can't do it. You know I'd let you if I could, but I can't."

"What happened to the old George?" Julia challenged, choosing a new angle, "He would have let me come."

George opened his mouth to speak, then threw his hands in the air. "I will call the Inspector. If he says no then there's nothing I can do."

Julia sat down when George dialed the Inspector, hands in a tight knot in her lap. She had won one victory, but would she win another?

"…yes, a break… that's right… I know, I was surprised too… yes, you heard me, a trap… of course… I will see you soon… oh Sir? Doctor Ogden… Yes, I know, but… alright, goodbye." George hung up and looked over to where Julia sat eyes hard.

"He says you can come with us as long as you keep your distance. You won't be storming any buildings or shooting any guns, but you'll be there."

"Thank you!" Julia cried, standing to hug the constable.

"Don't worry about it," He muttered, "I just don't want you hurting the baby. I'm sure Darcy would have a fit. "

"Oh, him. I haven't thought of a way to tell him that I was going. We haven't exactly been on speaking terms."

"It's about Detective Murdoch, isn't it?" George asked, concern showing in his young face.

"No—well, yes, I think a little bit," Julia faltered. Why was everyone asking her such things?

"Whatever it is, I think we're close. We'll find him, I'm sure." He gave Julia one of his funny, lopsided smiles and took the letter, forgotten in the confrontation, from the desk.

He opened it and read the note out loud.

"You have kept us waiting. This is our final warning; the money or he dies. Remember where."

Julia looked up.

"I'll have to give them the money, won't I?" she asked, a plan already forming in her mind.

"Not yet, we still may be able to locate our Detective. We'll have a Crow to check out the property and see that the kidnappers are there, and then if they are, we can ambush them before they can so much as think the word "money."

"What about that trap you spoke of?" Julia looked worried again, and she began to pace.

"If it's a trap or not, our Crow will tell us."

Julia took a steadying breath, but found that it did nothing to calm her nerves which had become a jumble of excitement and trepidation.

"Where is Betty this morning?" She asked.

"At the clinic," George replied in a subdued voice, "her headaches have been getting worse."

"I never knew anything was wrong," Julia replied.

"Yes, well, you know Bet; she doesn't want to worry anyone with anything. I told her to go weeks ago, but she wanted to help with us and the case."

"I could take a look at her if you wanted me to," Julia offered, "you know that I could help."

"Betty would never allow it," George shook his head, "You have enough to worry about without us."

There was a moment of silence, and then the Inspector broke it, entering the room with bleary eyes and mustache in disarray.

"I left as soon as I hung up with you," he said, "So, me ol' mucker, a lead at last. We'll prepare to leave tonight. We can't chance these bastards escaping again."

**AN: a crow is a lookout and a Muck Snipe is a bum (kind of) more of a person who running low on luck (down and outer). That definition is not mine. I can't remember where I got it from, but to avoid copyrights, IT'S NOT MINE! Luv the reviews, keep em coming! (Side note: **me ol' mucker?**) Totally guessed. **


	18. Chapter 18

** AN: This part written to Welcome Home by Radical Face**

"So now what?" Julia asked, crouched behind a bush at the ambush site with George, armed with a shotgun and Higgins with a pistol. They were near an old log cabin, the roof slightly caved and walkway overgrown with weeds.

"Our man will whistle twice, and then we move it," George replied, "but you have to stay here, remember." Julia nodded excitement palpable in the air. She would see William today; she would… she would swallow her feelings and pretend her heart hadn't been split in two.

"How did Darcy feel about this?" Higgins asked unexpectedly.

"I told him I was visiting my father," she replied, "When I come home tonight he won't expect a thing."

The two men beside her passed glances but snapped back into reality when they heard two long whistles. It took a moment to react, as the whistles were barely discernable from a call of the local birds.

"The signal?" Higgins asked.

"Yes," George whispered, standing, shotgun pointed at the house.

Higgins got up and they moved swiftly towards the building with the other constables, armed similarly and moving like ghosts from the trees.

George knocked on the door and when there was no reply, jiggled the door handle. Another constable shouted something, and forced his way in by ramming his shoulder against the wood.

Three things happened at once.

One, there was a hail of bullets and Julia saw George stumble away from the door.

Second, there was a loud crack, and, like slow motion, the steps gave way, making the men stumble, trapping some with the heavily rotted boards.

Third, Julia heard Darcy's frantic voice from behind her and turned just in time to see a spray of bullets thud into his chest. He gasped and fell to his knees.

Julia screamed and raced towards him. Someone cried for her to stop, but she did not listen and kneeled beside her fiancée, eyes wide and frantic. She did not even notice the glint of black in the dark or feel the bullet that struck her shoulder and passed through her lung and out the other side.

"Julia," Someone said, as if in a haze, "Julia, are you still with us…?"

"…Will she be alright?"

Black.


	19. Chapter 19

"Doctor Francis will be well soon enough," A matronly nurse said, folding a bloody rag beside a starched white bed at the Toronto General Hospital.

"I hope so," George said, adjusting the sling about his shoulder, "We need a lead from here."

The nurse nodded, and left the room.

"Doctor Francis?" George asked, "Doc—,"

"I heard you," came a familiar, slightly annoyed voice.

"What happened?"

"You saw," the Doctor said in a groggy voice, "Look at my hands."

"I know, but did you hear anything about Detective Murdoch? Is he still alive?"

"They still want their money, don't they?"

George considered this for a moment and shrugged. "Did you hear where they were going?"

"I heard… nothing, Constable, I was—," he gasped when he tried to adjust his position on the bed, "I was unconscious."

"Fair enough," George replied. "Feel better soon, Doctor."

Doctor Francis gave a weak acknowledgement and George stood to leave.

"Constable," the Doctor said when George reached the door, "tell my wife to go back home now. She shant be needing me any longer."

George, unsure of how to take this from Francis, assured him that he would pass the message along and walked down the hall to where Higgins, Brakenried, and half of station four either sat or stood, waiting, dressed in black with

"Shall we go then?" Higgins asked, taking a measured breath.

"Yes. Do you have your speech?" George replied, addressing Brakenried.

"Here," he replied, "We have to be there soon. The pallbearers will need time to pay their respects."

**AN: More to the story. Who should have died I wonder?" R&R**


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Wow. 20 chapters, where **_**did**_** all the chapters go? Ok, so drum roll please…. The guy I killed off was… you just have to read and see :P**

Deceptively warm for an October morning, the black clad mourners found themselves sweating under the layers of clothing and scarves they adorned themselves with, all waiting for the priest to say his words and the dirt to be thrown on the coffin lid.

A few cried; and some, like the closest family members, stood about, eyes red-rimmed and faces pale.

Julia, in a wheelchair, sat beside George who held Betty's hand while she sobbed.

"Not him," she was whimpering, "I can't believe it. It couldn't have been him. Oh poor Henry."

Julia could not believe it either. Darcy was spared, and she knew she should have been glad, but the trade for Higgins's life was cruel. The doctors had told her that the bullets had missed Darcy's vital organs, and had merely lodged themselves within his soft tissue and that he would be well again soon, but she could not be glad.

Things had just gone so wrong. They were supposed to be saving Detective Murdoch, but instead they managed only to rescue Doctor Francis and kill Higgins. They had not even managed to fatally wound either of the snipers who lay in wait in the shack, patiently biding their time.

Everyone blamed themselves for it; they all claimed to have had a hand in the tragic events. No one was left uninjured, but that did not stop the men from expressing their grief that they would have taken the bullet for their comrade.

Henry's mother and father, whom Julia had never seen, stood close by the priest, shaking and wiping tears from their eyes. Henry's father held his mother close, and she dabbed her face with her handkerchief.

The priest motioned for everyone to be silent, and he began to speak in somber tones.

"Meaningless! Meaningless! Says the teacher," he began, "Utterly meaningless…" Julia, not one for the words of an old cleric, tried to focus, but found that she could not. "…There is no remembrance of men of old, and even those who are yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow…" Julia felt the tug of stitches against her dress, and she wondered what it was for. For Darcy. For Shame. She would have given her life for Higgins but never got the opportunity because of her fiancé.

It took her a moment to realize that the priest had finished speaking when she saw Henry's mother move to the front of the crowd and clear her throat delicately.

"My boy," she began, "How I miss you. This eternity shall be forever to bear with your absence. I wish—," a sob caught in her throat and she took a breath to steady herself, "—I just wish you could be back with us for one more moment. What I would tell you, I know not, but to hear your voice once more…" She could take it no longer and was led away by her husband, fresh tears unconcealed on his cheeks.

Julia looked around. Everyone had tears in their eyes. Even the normally strong inspector looked shaken as he stood, white rose in hand, with his wife. It was a scene of misery that should not have been.

Julia sighed when the speaking was done and Betty wheeled her over to the site. With a heavy heart and a small prayer, she dropped her rose.

**AN: So, kay, don't kill me. If you don't like it, just tell me and I can rewrite someone else in (it's a catch, though. Who knows who I will put in his place?) : R&R for a vote. **


	21. Chapter 21

Since they moved him, they had not been as diligent in ensuring his captivity. On the ride there they had not even chloroformed him. They had just blindfolded and gagged like they did the first time. They had not even bothered to cover up the noise of the nearby shops or the busy clop of hooves on cobblestones.

When they had gone to tie him to a chair with his hands behind his back and feet bound to the legs, he had taken a deep breath and flexed his muscles, examining the room closely. There was a fire in a grate at the far corner of the room, and a window with several sharp shards just about waist height. Murdoch catalogued these items and waited. The glass was too high, but the fire, if the manipulation did not work, would be the best option. He knew he was on the main floor of an abandoned or ill-used house by the look and the fact that he had not been forced down or up stairs.

The door closed shortly later amidst threats that failed to scare him. They had not killed him yet, and he didn't think they would until they got their money. Mutilation did not bother him too much either; his brain could sustain him if nothing else.

He wiggled and exhaled, trying to loosen the bonds. He worked the length of cord around his left wrist first, first pulling down the loosest piece around his thumb and then twisted his wrist so that he could feel the base of the first knot with his other hand.

_Patience,_ he though as he worked the rope. His fingers felt raw from the pulling and every time he loosened one length of rope another would tighten but he kept going. There was always an option to burn the rope off, but if he could Houdini his way out of it, he would much prefer it to singeing his skin and blistering his hands.

He took a breath when he felt the second last tie give and struggled out of the last binding piece of rope. He grinned, but his excitement was short-lived when he heard his captors coming back towards the room. Frantically, and with adrenaline pulsing through his veins, he set to work on the binds that held his legs. Fortunately they were messy and loose, and he slipped out of them with a couple seconds to spare.

There was a bookshelf in the corner by the fireplace and an iron poker wedged between two large logs. The bookshelf provided a small, man-sized cubby between it and the wall in which to hide. Murdoch made a dash for the poker and forced himself between the bookshelf and the wall, breathing shallowly.

Grimesby swore loudly and Murdoch could hear him cross the floor to the window. His breath was ragged and he said in a menacing half-whisper, "If you are still here, Detective, come out- come out wherever you are. You are a dead man."

Murdoch heard him before he saw him.

Thrusting the poker out like a sword, he burst from his hiding place just as Grimesby was moving towards it. Grimesby screamed in agony and held the grotesquely misused poker, a pole jutting from his gut, in his hands, eyes wide and fearful.

Murdoch barely paused to make these observations, however. Knowing that Grimesby's partner was most likely very close by, he crossed the floor to the window where he kicked out some of the largest shards from the frame and maneuvered his way out.

He felt a piece rip his pant leg and slice deeply into his calf and then his arm, but the adrenaline and shock were making it impossible to feel the injuries properly. He found himself in an alley, and, looking both ways, streaked off towards the road he could see close by. He recognized the district as China Town, and forced his way into the crowd.

People walked about, oblivious to his plight, though some gave him dirty looks as if they believed him to be a drunk stumbling through the streets. He almost did stumble when the pain shooting through his leg became apparent, but he forced himself onwards, searching for a familiar landmark.

Feng Choy's was near the corner, and he hobbled as fast as his legs could take him. Mei Li was at the counter sorting herbs, and when she saw him she cried for her grandfather. Mr. Choy helped Murdoch into a seat in the back (as much for hiding Murdoch as preserving business, he suspected,) and rung up Station Four as well as the closest available Station House. As his English was poor, Mei Li explained what had happened and confirmed the location with small nods and affirmations. When she hung up she seemed agitated and crestfallen.

"They are all at a funeral," She said, "We must take you there on our own."

"I could not allow that," Murdoch replied automatically, "Not with—with them following me." He did not elaborate on who exactly "them" were, but she did not press.

Mei Li seemed not to care what Murdoch said, and called her grandfather, speaking rapid Cantonese. He disappeared out the door and was back within minutes with a bowler and colorful hanfu which he made Murdoch put on and adjusted so that his eyes were almost obscures by the hat rim.

He then helped Murdoch to his feet and to a cab which waited outside, its Chinese driver wearing an annoyed frown. Mr. Choy ordered Mei Li back into the shop but she resisted with a pouty frown. Mr. Choy attempted to argue, but she was adamant. They spoke for a moment longer when Murdoch was safely inside the cab and he saw Mr. Choy throw up his hands in a defeated gesture. Mei Li smiled and jumped into the coach alongside Murdoch, giving directions the coachman as she closed the door.

"My grandfather will stay at the shop," she said smiling, "but he wants to pick me up later if you cannot bring me home."

"I'll see to it that you find your way unharmed," Murdoch replied, pain and exhaustion making him dizzy and mind blur, "I haven't been to China Town in the years since we investigated your grandfather; its prettier now."

Mei Li nodded slightly and made a little face as if she did not know how to take that comment. Murdoch, suddenly feeling an itch on his leg, went to feel it and found his hand to be slick with blood. He looked from his hand to Mei Li to the floor. Already a small puddle of deep crimson blood had begun to form around his ankle.

Mei Li gasped and pulled out her hair ribbon, letting her thick black hair fall about her face. She tried to tie a tourniquet, pulling tightly on the ribbon and saturating it with blood, but Murdoch feared that it did not work when a second later he felt his vision become fuzzy and his mind go blissfully blank when he slumped against the opposite wall of the carriage.

When he awoke, moaning from the pain, he felt several pairs of hands lifting him out of the coach and onto a stretcher. He tried to make out shapes and was sure he saw Mei Li's shock of black hair, then Julia's mass of auburn curls but he could not be sure.

"Julia," he managed to whisper before receding once more into blackness.

**AN: Haha! The longest chapter so far (stands and grins,) woot! So what are the thoughts on this chapter? Murdoch is in rough shape, (hint-hint,) so his fate is up for debate! Wahahaha! (I'm done now)**


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: an unforgivable delay. I'm sorry. I just got kinda mopey, and watched the last episode of Murdoch Mysteries over again. It still gets to me. As well I have a Murdoch spoiler. If you want to know what it is read the Author's Note at the bottom of the page. **

Murdoch came to then blacked out several times before he finally woke up. Dizzy from the lack of food and blood loss, he was disoriented and tired. When he tried to look around, panic spiking, he found that it hurt to open his eyes. He was in a small hospital room and someone was standing at the door.

"Who is it?" Murdoch croaked through closed eyes.

"Me," George's voice replied, "Me and breakfast."

"Good, I haven't eaten a proper meal in days." Murdoch sensed George hesitate at the door, and looked over, watching the concerned expression on the constable's face. "What is it?" He asked.

"Higgins," George replied quietly, "him and Darcy and Dr. Ogden."

"What?" Murdoch replied, attempting to sit up, but finding that he was restricted by the many tubes that connected him to the IV drips.

"Higgins is dead, Dr. Garland is hurt and Dr. Ogden is temporarily in a wheelchair," he said it in a rush, stepping inside and closing the door.

Murdoch did not know how to reply. He was stunned; simply stunned.

"At least your safe though," George shrugged, "We thought you were a goner when we refused to pay the ransom."

"How?" Murdoch asked weakly.

"Higgins was with us on a rescue mission. We thought you might be at this shack we found the address for."

"Did you find Doctor Francis?" Murdoch closed his eyes again, willing himself to forget the brutality of the forest house.

"Yes, and he is recovering a couple rooms down from you. I'm sure though, sir," there was a knock on the door, "that the others would like to see you, too." The door opened and Brakenried and Betty wheeling Julia entered the cramped space.

"So, you gave us a right scare, me ol' mucker," Brakenried said, "Glad to see you will be joining us back in the land of the living."

Betty grinned when she saw him and wheeled Julia closer to the bed.

"How nice to see you better," she said, "When you are better we must celebrate."

"Indeed," Julia smiled. "How are you feeling? Is the opium working to ease the pain?"

"That explains the dizziness," Murdoch said, more to himself than her, "but yes, if it was given it is helping."

"I'm sure they have a lot to talk about," Brakenried hinted, looking at Julia and William, "why don't we give the man his rest and we'll all come back in a day or two?" George seemed on the verge of disagreeing but then realized the implications of the Inspector's words and ushered Betty out with him, Brakenried on his heels.

There was an uncomfortable silence when the door closed and Julia looked at her hands.

"Darcy's so mad with me," she said with a slight laugh in her voice, "he heard about us."

"There is no _us_," Murdoch replied quietly, "there stopped being an "us" when you got engaged to Darcy. I don't see why he is worrying."

"He didn't want you found," Julia continued, "he burned a letter from the kidnappers."

Murdoch paused and looked hard at her. It took him a supreme effort to focus, but when he finally did he saw that she was serious.

"He burned it," she said, "when I told him about us. He also doesn't expect me to work after we are married. If he had his way I wouldn't even be here, but you know me, I can't listen."

"I understand his thought process," Murdoch replied, "but as highly educated as you are it would be a waste to let you sit at home where you are of no practical use other than caring for children," he paused, "are you having second thoughts about marrying Dr. Garland?"

"Yes—no, I mean no," Julia said quickly correcting herself, "I want to marry him, but I fear that I do not know him as well as I thought. He can be temperamental and jealous."

"All men can," Murdoch replied, "I would be if I loved you as he does."

Julia's face went slack when she heard the word, "loved," and asked, "You love me still? How—why would you? It's been almost a year."

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Murdoch responded in a disquieted voice, "It is not proper for me to speak about such matters with you when you are engaged."

"Take proper and bin it," Julia shook her head, "the only thing that is not proper is the fact that I—I think I love you."

The door swung open and Darcy looked hurt and furious.

**AN: R&R! The spoiler is that Murdoch doesn't lose his badge though they don't say what police station he is working for. Not much of one, I know, but I was kind of disappointed to hear that nothing really dramatic happens. Oh well, maybe it will. I still can't come to terms with the end of last season. **


	23. Chapter 23 The Final Chapter

**AN: So there's going to be a new Murdoch season hosted by CBC. That's good I guess, but I hope there's a little more drama. The last season ended a little too perfectly with Murdoch and Julia. (Not that I'm complaining) **

**Without further adieu, I bid you farewell with the end of the story, the grande finale! **

Murdoch recovered, and married Julia in the spring. Her engagement to Darcy had been called off, and though he had recovered from his injuries, there were still some worrying signs. He had quit his post at the hospital, and had been admitted himself for complications from the bullets.

Julia had her child, a girl named Susanna after Murdoch's sister, and the three had moved into a large home in Toronto, a gift from her father, and Murdoch was happy.

He had the two most important girls in his life, and though Susanna was not his own daughter, he delighted in her smiles and the pale blond hair that framed her face like a wreath. She was a lively child, and each day she reminded her stepfather more of her mother. Her father was barely evident in her face, save her bright eyes.

Julia returned to work, and soon she was practising pediatrics and back to her campaign for woman's rights. She continued to be a firecracker, and when she had almost been arrested (again,) her husband worked to stop her conviction. There was a fine involved, but Murdoch knew the judge, so all was waived, giving Julia a stronger voice in the community and the sort of immunity required of a revolutionary.

Life was pleasant, so when he came home on a warm late summer evening two years later to find his wife and stepdaughter on the front porch dressed in airy whites, he thought they looked like angels, but upon closer inspection he noticed Julia had been crying.

Without thinking he went to her, and took her free hand in his.

"William," she said in an emotionless voice, a mask to contain the hurt, "Darcy died in surgery this afternoon. Susanna's father is gone."

"Julia," Murdoch took her in his arms, careful of the baby between them, "I am so sorry. Please, know that I will do my best to take care of your daughter like she was my own—she is my own, in a way. I love you both."

Julia sobbed into his chest at this proclamation, and Susanna looked between them, large expressive eyes worried. Not sure what was wrong, she began to cry. Looking down, Murdoch took the child from her mother and held against his shoulder, rocking her. Her wailing slowed, and stopped with soothing noises from her stepfather. When he looked up in triumph Julia's eyes were sparkling with tears, but she was smiling.

"You are right of course," she nodded, looking at her daughter with pure love, "she will never want for anything. You will be a good father, and we will tell her what kind of man her real father was when she is old enough. You will help me?"

"Of course," Murdoch nodded solemnly, "We will tell her that he was a good man, a hero."

Julia smiled then, a sad little smile. "You know Betty came over today. George proposed to her."

Murdoch knew already, he had helped George pick a ring, but he pretended to be surprised.

"How wonderful," he rocked Susanna and regarded his wife. She was keeping something from him, and he could see it hiding behind her eyes. He could also see that she knew he did not just learn of George's engagement and wondered at the futility of deceiving her.

"Susanna is to have a sibling," she looked at her daughter as she wiggled out of her father's arms and into her mother's. Susanna looked at her father, and said, in a small, self-confident voice,

"Daddy, I'm getting a new sister!"

Murdoch looked a little shocked for a moment and regarded the child with uncomprehending bliss, keeping his sorrow for Darcy in some dark, selfish place.

"Or a little brother," Julia laughed now. Susanna tipped up onto her toes and tugged Julia's hair. Julia looked down.

"Can I name it?" the child, remarkably developed for her age, asked.

A look passed between her mother and stepfather.

"We'll see," Murdoch said, coming to sit beside his wife. "Oh Julia, this is wonderful."

Julia hugged him and they sat on the porch for a long while until darkness came and they retired into the cool darkness of the house.

And so the year nineteen hundred went by. And it _was_ wonderful... until the world was called to war.

**AN: I'm bad, I know, but I wanted to add that. The Victorians were reaching a crucial point in world history, and no one even knew it. If you want a continuation of this, or an "Off to War," thing from William, review, but if not, hope you've enjoyed this drabble! Toodles :)**


End file.
